To a Lady Complaining of Solitude
[Lines aroused on hearing a song across the area—or is it aria?—way.]
Lady, I hear your moan,
Set in a minor key,
Pitched in a plaintive tone,
Triste is your “All alone,
Nobody here but me.”
Set in a minor key,
Pitched in a plaintive tone,
Triste is your “All alone,
Nobody here but me.”
Lady, I know you not.
Be you or dark or fair,
Happy or hard your lot,
Who you may be or what,
Little I know—or care.
Be you or dark or fair,
Happy or hard your lot,
Who you may be or what,
Little I know—or care.
But—when you sing that song
Reeking with woe and ruth—
Lady, to put it strong,
Yours is a statement wrong,
Far from the well-known truth.
Reeking with woe and ruth—
Lady, to put it strong,
Yours is a statement wrong,
Far from the well-known truth.
Lady, in brief, you lie.
Think of me as I rage,
Aiming to versify.
“All alone!” Am not I,
Too, in the vicinage? '
Think of me as I rage,
Aiming to versify.
“All alone!” Am not I,
Too, in the vicinage? '